Carl calls back as promised.
‘What? What’s happening?’ I enquire.
‘Don’t worry, it’s all fine. I was explaining all the details to the president. Fortunately, the guy you spoke to earlier is one of the main accountants, sent over from head office. He has been through the bank accounts and exonerated me of any blame. He said that unless I was checking personally every day, I couldn’t have known unless the bank had called me, and there was no reason for them to have done so.’
‘Thank God for that,’ I answer. ‘You’re still in a job, then?’
‘Yes! The president was quite sympathetic, but I wouldn’t like to go through it again, I can tell you.’
‘Indeed,’ I empathise. ‘So, ahem, I don’t want to be too pushy, but Jamie Cropper is getting a bit anxious.’
‘Totally agree. No worries. Frank here tells me that most of the loss is covered by insurance, and he has arranged for a transfer to be made today.’
‘Wow, what a relief.’ I breathe a sigh of relief.
‘Likewise. I’d better get back to the figures.’
‘Of course. We’ll catch up soon,’ I finish.
I’m still shaking my head and sighing when Amelia enters, asking for my lunch order.
‘That sounded positive,’ she observes. ‘Anything special, then, for lunch, to celebrate?’
‘I was almost thinking of going out, but maybe a drink after work?’
‘Excellent idea,’ Amelia approves. ‘And lunch?
‘I don’t know. Surprise me,’ I reply.
Amelia gone, I call Jamie. As she had reported, he sounds remarkably upbeat.
‘Thought it might be you,’ he greets me cheerfully. ‘I hope it is good news.’
‘Absolutely is. You should have the cash in your bank tomorrow or the day after,’ I’m very pleased to advise him, without mentioning any of the drama that took place behind the scenes. ‘Carl Benson says to apologise for taking a few days longer than promised.’
‘Fantastic!’ he exclaims. ‘I owe you one.’
‘A quick cheque in return would be thanks enough,’ I counter.
‘Consider it done. Speak soon,’ he ends.
Feeling pleased, I contemplate Amelia’s surprise lunch – and surprise it is: a ‘hand-made’ prawn salad with coleslaw.
‘How else would you make a salad?’ I query, raising an eyebrow.
‘You’d never believe it,’ she replies, rolling her eyes. ‘Here, have this as well. They were half price as a meal deal.’ She hands me a bottle of Buxton spring water.
Chapter 25
In a conference room of a small hotel near central London, an executive meeting was in full swing of Harmony Earth, an umbrella group funding a number of protest groups in the UK, ranging from fox-hunting to GM crops and including the prospecting for oil and gas by fracking. The chairman spoke.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to our last meeting for the year. I would like to begin with finance. I am pleased to advise that our coffers are buoyant, thanks to the efforts of our fundraisers and motivators.’ He gestured to a quartet of shadowy figures sitting to his right-hand side. All spoke at length of their successes in protests of varying kinds up and down the country, including marches and violent disruption of events of which they did not approve.
One beamed demonically as he revealed the sabotaging of FrackUK plans in the north west of England. He also described the success of propaganda advertising campaigns, claiming that energy experts had agreed that fracking would not reduce energy bills.
The chairman closed with the words, ‘Go, my friends, and preach to your comrades of our continued success in ridding the world of the evils of capitalism and its destruction of our Mother Earth.’
The delegate packed his items into a trendy canvas-type bag, hoisted it over his shoulder and headed for the city-bound train and Euston Station, where he waited for a Virgin Pendolino train bound for Manchester Piccadilly. The journey time was two hours and ten minutes, surely fast enough. The purported benefits of the mooted new train line HS2 did not ring true, and the exorbitant cost would be a burden for generations to come. The few minutes’ time saved did not seem worth the destruction of the countryside. A worthy cause for Harmony Earth to be fighting for, he thought.
***
At Greater Manchester Police headquarters, Detective Inspector Bill Lambert had allowed Barry Milton to stew over the weekend.
‘What else has come in since Friday, then?’ he asked Detective Sergeant Maurice Evans.
‘Well, we have spoken to Phil Biggins, the training director at Salford into Work, and the barman in the River Bar at the Lowry Hotel. Both back his story, saying he pretty much stayed close to the bar all the time and they don’t recollect him going outside at all.’
‘Bugger,’ Lambert muttered. ‘He looked a shoe-in for the murder to start with.’
‘I agree, sir, but it would all be a tad too neat, wouldn’t it, sir? Just like your mate the Gent remarked.’
‘So where are you suggesting we look next?’
‘Beats me. At least we got four employees for fraud so far. That’s a result.’
‘Try telling that to Marian Clowes husband and children,’ Lambert countered.
‘What about the affair theory, though?’ Evans posed.
‘That is interesting, but the problem is who? As you know, Tim Sheldon confirmed that it was definitely not one of the protesters, and no one from Salford into Work is in the frame yet.’
‘What about Phil Biggins?’ Evans suggested.
‘I know he’s a bit odd,’ Lambert agreed, ‘but then, so is half the population. We will have to go through the routine with Milton. If we lay it on a bit about the murder we may get more on the frauds.’
‘I’ll get the interrogation room set up for two hours. He’ll want his brief in.’
***
Milton was subdued. ‘Where’s my solicitor?’ he demanded.
‘On his way,’ Evans replied. ‘Said he had other clients, and maybe you’re not that important to him anymore Barry, eh! Ex-jailbird like you, going down for murder.’
Milton banged his fists on the table in response, and prepared to rise.
‘Steady, Barry, there’s a good boy,’ Lambert cajoled.
Milton quickly became the smooth talker again. ‘Look, you got me, OK? You know I was involved in a bit of fraud, but everyone does it, don’t they, on these government contracts? It’s the only way you can make it pay. The staff get a bit more, the company gets a bit more, and we keep looking after the clients – if they really want a job, that is. Everyone’s a winner, aren’t they?’
‘You’re all heart, Barry,’ Evans chided.
The solicitor arrived, sweaty and apologetic. Lambert pushed the boat out and offered a glass of water.
The solicitor began. ‘You really shouldn’t be interrogating my client on a murder charge without my presence.’
‘We’ve not asked any questions about murder yet. Perhaps we could start now?’ Lambert suggested. ‘Mr Milton, where were you on the night of the murder, between seven and nine?’
‘I’ve already been through this with you,’ Milton answered.
‘Not under caution and with your solicitor present,’ Lambert persisted.
Milton shook his head, rolled his eyes for effect, and looked at his solicitor, who nodded for him to answer. ‘OK, in the River Bar of the Lowry Hotel.’
‘Can anyone back that up?’ Evans demanded.
‘I’ve already told you: the barman, Phil Biggins the training director of Salford into Work, and a few others.’
‘So you didn’t go out for a fag or to use your mobile phone?’ Lambert tried again.
‘I don’t smoke, and my mobile was switched off,’ Milton smirked.
‘What were you drinking, Barry?’ Evans asked.
‘I had a few beers.’
‘Pints?’ Evans added.
‘Yes, it was Friday night and a celebration, you know.’
<
br /> ‘You must have a bloody good bladder, Barry, drinking pints of beer for two hours and you didn’t even go for a pee,’ Lambert observed drily.
Milton exchanged a look with his solicitor, who merely raised one eyebrow.
‘Well, I suppose I might have had to go to the bathroom,’ Milton said grudgingly.
‘How long were you out of sight of the bar area?’ Lambert demanded.
‘Not long. Maybe a few minutes.’
‘Long enough to nip outside, strangle Marian Clowes and chuck her over the railings into the River Irwell, eh, Barry!’ Evans shouted.
Milton was taken aback and visibly shrank as his solicitor stood up in support. ‘I must object to this style of questioning. This is harassment of my client, and pure conjecture with no evidence whatsoever.’
‘Yes, yes, we’ll call it a day there,’ Lambert accepted wearily.
With the solicitor gone and Milton back in his cell, the two policemen discussed the situation. Lambert began. ‘We don’t have anything if all the people in the bar can’t even remember him disappearing for a pee for a minute or two.’
‘But what if someone outside of the bar noticed him?’ countered Evans. ‘Either in the toilet or in the corridor going to or from.’
‘That doesn’t necessarily place him outside the hotel, unless he was actually seen exiting or entering,’ Lambert observed.
‘True,’ Evans accepted. ‘But it might be worthwhile making some enquiries on the corridor angle – hotel staff and guests coming and going,’
‘OK,’ Lambert agreed. ‘Put a couple of men on it, then. We’ve nothing to lose, and Milton ain’t going anywhere soon. By the way, how’s the forensic accounts team doing on the fraud charges?’
‘Coming along fine. Reckon they’ll have it all sewn up in a couple of weeks. Annoying, though: because it is white collar crime and only taxpayers’ money, he won’t get that long and then only serve half of it, and a lot of that in an open prison.’
Lambert sighed. ‘I know. Let’s get cracking, then.’
Chapter 26
I set off later this morning, Tuesday, to get an MOT on the Saab. It passes with flying colours except for rear brakes, which were fixed there and then, with only a half-hour wait. Checking on train times, I’d have to wait at the station for another hour before a through train is due, so I drive into Stockport, along minor roads and lanes to avoid the M6 motorway. When I arrive at the Enodo office, Amelia has that concerned expression on her face and I wonder if she and her girlfriend have had a row again. Both can be volatile, and as they both attend a martial arts class I wouldn’t like to be around when things blow.
It turns out I’d imagined the wrong girl as being the reason for Amelia’s mood. It’s actually Sophia Peroni.
‘Morning. Problem?’ I quiz.
‘Yes, ’ she answers anxiously. ‘I’ll bring coffee in.’
‘Everything OK business-wise?’ I ask first. ‘Mercenary as though that sounds, business does pay the bills.’
‘Yes, of course. It’s Sophia Peroni – we were talking again last night after gym class, and there’s definitely something up with her. She’s still not right. She keeps harping on about a stalker, but I think that’s just a ruse to put us off the scent.’
‘Who do you mean by ‘us’ in this context?’
‘Me and Suzy, obviously.’
‘What makes you think there isn’t a stalker?’
‘Well, it’s only a feeling, but she has never been able to identify him, so that in itself is a bit suspect, don’t you think?’
‘Yes, I do. People usually involve the police with a clear description of the perpetrator at least, or if it is someone known to them, a name.’
‘Anyway, I feel she is using the stalker story to cover up another situation, and Suzy agrees with me.’
By now I’m unsure of my role. ‘So what do you expect from me?’
‘Well, I’ve had an idea: you remember the young man who worked part-time at the Peroni gallery in Prestbury?’
‘Yes, I do, but I thought Sophia finished with him.’
‘That’s what she said, but what if that was also a ruse?’
‘I’m even more confused now. Are you saying she is a closet lesbian or something?’
‘No, I would know straightaway, wouldn’t I?’
I’m grateful for the honest enlightenment. ‘So where are we going with this plan of yours?’
‘Right, well, the “maybe not” boyfriend now works at the Lowry art gallery on Salford Quays. There is an exhibition on at the moment, and Carlo Peroni has loaned some items from his gallery in Prestbury for the period. I think we should take this cultural opportunity to pop along and inadvertently have a chat with this “not” boyfriend.’
I ponder for a moment before answering. ‘I think I now see where you might be going here. It has always struck me as strange that a beautiful young woman like Sophia does not have a serious man-friend, or perhaps several vying admirers.’
‘Unless she is covering up, or can’t say who it is?’
‘That could explain why she appears to be constantly worried,’ I add.
‘It probably could,’ she agrees. ‘Shall we go tonight after work?’
‘Yes, why not?’
We leave it until six o’clock, to allow the rush-hour traffic to ease. It is still busy on the M60 ring road, and it is six forty-five by the time we park up on the Salford Quays. We walk over to the gallery. Sophia and her father Carlo have been there for some time, organising and greeting guests and dignitaries. We spend half an hour chatting with them, throughout which I cannot detect any obvious signs of distress from Sophia.
Amelia worked at an art gallery in Chester for some years, prior to joining me as a partner in Enodo. I have not met Julian before, nor am I knowledgeable about art, so I’m only too happy to let Amelia take charge as we saunter around. She is explaining the attributes of a particular oil painting to me, when a young thin man with round glasses and wearing a light-grey leather jacket hovers close by and asks if we need any assistance. As we turn around, there is instant recognition between him and Amelia. After greetings, I am introduced.
‘Of course, Amelia, I’m sure you won’t need me to explain much to you,’ says Julian.
‘I’m flattered,’ she replies, ‘but there are exhibits here the provenance of which I have no idea.’
‘Who is flattered now?’ he gamely replies.
The opportunity to quickly engage Julian could be lost, so I try to catch Amelia’s eye in order to steer the subject on to Sophia. She catches on and deftly changes tack.
‘Julian, could we possibly move somewhere a little quieter for a moment or two? There is another matter that we would appreciate your advice on.’
Despite a quizzical frown, he leads us into the next room, which contains only a few exhibits. Feeling like conspirators, we gather at the far end where there are no exhibits at all. I take the lead.
‘It’s about Sophia Peroni,’ I begin. ‘First of all, do you have any idea what we do?’
‘I imagine it is private investigations or something, from what I gathered from Sophia.’
‘That is close enough,’ I answer. ‘Amelia and her friend Suzy have been concerned for some time now, and latterly myself too, that she is seriously worried about something. However, she won’t actually confide in us what it might be. We wondered, as her boyfriend, or ex rather, that you might know more.’
‘Oh, dear!’ Julian exclaims. ‘I thought you knew that our relationship was purely platonic. I’m gay.’
Some things aren’t always obvious, I think to myself. Amelia is more forthright and puts her big foot in it.
‘Fooled me,’ she begins. ‘Oh shit, I’m sorry…’
‘I’m not trying to fool anyone,’ he states honestly. ‘I’m just me.’
There is an embarrassed silence for a moment before Julian speaks again.
‘Look, I’m not offended. What is it you need to know?’
‘OK, did you ever perceive that she was worried about anything?’
‘Yes, I did, but she covered it by saying she thought she was being followed. I very much doubted that she could have been followed, other than by some red-blooded male going in the same direction and adding a few yards extra on his journey when he saw her. She is a stunner, after all.’
‘Indeed she is,’ Amelia and I both agree.
Julian continues. ‘If you want my honest opinion, she must have had a boyfriend, but it was – is – a clandestine relationship.’
Amelia and I exchange glances. ‘I think you could have something there,’ I agree. ‘Do you have any idea who it could be?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ Julian answers.
Amelia makes a point. ‘If that’s the case, it does confirm that she is actually worried about something real, and that the stalker story is a ruse to divert attention from whoever she can’t readily admit to having an affair with, which may suggest a married man?’
‘An excellent theory, I have to agree.’
‘That makes sense to me’ Julian adds.
We continue talking for a while, until it reaches the point where Julian excuses himself in order to attend to other patrons, several of whom are hovering close by. Now left to our own devices, we wander around for another half hour, my attention being drawn to various exhibits by Amelia. Julian is nowhere to be seen now, but we spot Carlo surrounded by a crowd, some of whom are more akin to fans from his soccer star days than art aficionados. We give him a wave as we depart the gallery.
Heading back round the M60 to the A34 and south into Cheshire, and needing to eat, we stop off at the Merlin Pub on the outskirts of Alderley Edge where the bypass begins. It is good pub food, so we both opt for the simple fare of cottage pie and beer. The discussion is all about Sophia Peroni. We are in and out in forty-five minutes, and after dropping off Amelia I am home for ten o’clock and an early bedtime. My dreams are full of art, and Sophia features as a model in most of them – a siren luring sailors to a certain shipwreck.
***
Troubled Waters Page 15